Remnants
by lefcadio
Summary: Cloud x Sephiroth. Some memories can’t be kept down, and, perhaps, shouldn’t be forgotten.


_...when I needed someone most..._

Nibelheim had always been a quiet town. Small, picturesque houses --(but don't shout too loudly, the walls are only thin)-- cosy, local bars --(don't stand out, mind, play your part)-- and a friendly, close community --(if you're one of us, we'll get along just fine.)

It was a place where the sun shone in summer, it snowed in winter, and children played happily together underneath the central water tower. Perfect.

This is what most people saw -- Cloud, however, did not.

Ignored, cast out; as far as Cloud was concerned, he was an outsider. _Different_. Of course, back then, Cloud was young. He would frown as he stood alone, watching them leave. Clench his fists, lip trembling as _her_ gaze passed over him once again, as though he was invisible.

Cloud used to gaze out of his window, clutching the sill until his knuckles were white -- and all he could see were the smudges of grey in the sky; the cracks in the dark, patterned wood; the dirt and scraps of waste outside the bar; clusters of people he didn't really know, blank faces, gossiping and whispering.

Was this the reality? Looking back, he can't really tell. Perhaps it was all in his head; it wouldn't be the first time. But for him, back then, it was the way things were.

_...you were my hero._

Even among the blur of images, there are certain vivid scenes which stand out in his memory, glittering like cut crystal. Sharp, and, in retrospect, sometimes painful.

Cloud knew he was different--(_all I really wanted was for them to play with me--_)

Cloud knew he was _better_ than them--(_all I really wanted was to be accepted--_)

Cloud knew he would leave them all far behind--(_except, Tifa... if I do this..._)

And he knew this because of Sephiroth.

_I looked up to you._

He remembers that morning so clearly: wandering into the quiet kitchen, floorboards creaking - the air still held the faint scent of coffee, and the windows had caused jagged slices of pale, determined light to fall upon the table's surface.

A newspaper lay open on the worn, tired wood --(he remembers too that feeling of initial apathy, at seeing those crumpled edges and promises of all too familiar news)-- but then, as he spared a glance down, he stopped, pale blue eyes fixated on that oh-so-memorable image.

_Him_.

_...but, that couldn't last._

Now, there's so many more images burned into his mind - side by side, overlaid; in many ways indistinguishable from that first sighting. He wishes he could separate them --(sometimes awakens at night, heart pounding, and he can't tell whether it was a nightmare or a dream. Chances are, it was both.)-- but he can't.

There's the painful, angry, fragmented memory of his - no, Zack's - sword meeting the resistance of leather and flesh --(he was still so weak back then, he'd had to force it, so hard--)-- and then a flicker, and _he's_ the one on the end of a blade; that long, hypnotic sword he'd admired, forced to pull himself forward, hands numb from the shock and with warm blood pulsing its way out. That was the first time, and he'd watched him disappear down into the shining green depths.

There's the clearer, more melancholy memory, then - subdued anger, laced with regret. That instant of plunging the sword in --(oh, and how easily it had slipped through flesh and bone this time)-- that look of quiet surprise, a thin crimson trickle seeping down between those green mako eyes.

He's always hoped that would be enough; that maybe, that would be it. It wasn't. And so _this_ image is photographic, sharp; as yet untouched by the dulling edge of time. Pushed to his limit, desperately hacking --(a glowing blur in the darkness, and that look of _surprise_ still stayed with him)-- and then, in that quiet flurry of black feathers, morphing back into the avatar.

Used and discarded, just as Cloud had been.

_I wanted to _be _you... or at least, I thought I did._

A smile.

Sephiroth had _almost_ smiled at him. In passing, naturally, and almost out of pity - perhaps it was just amusement at the sorry state he was in - but it was there.

And of course, back then there had been no hatred, so it was a moment to seal away; treasure.

Later, there had been other smiles. But sneering, arrogant, and full of hatred.

No, but at that time...

It's like this: the back of the dingy truck, thrumming with the heavy growl of the engine. He's in the corner, clutching his knees and breathing unevenly into his anonymous helmet, stomach sick and mouth dry. There's smears of dirt all over the floor --(he doesn't want to look anywhere else, the shame is already overwhelming)-- and those black boots are heavy and worn, with months of ingrained dirt and battles evident.

_But the reality of it was not so simple._

He's convinced himself it's admiration, hero-worship; that's all. And perhaps it is. Perhaps the twist in his stomach and the heat in his cheeks is simply the result of that.

This is what he tells himself.

The shivers, and moving just _so_, choking out, mouthing something unidentifiable into the pillow at night.

_Those_ moments he locks away in the darkness where they belong.

_In the end, though..._

He sat at the kitchen table, legs swinging gently underneath his chair, eyes widening as he read.

He wondered if anyone would notice if he cut out the picture.

_You're just a memory._

Now, Cloud sits with Tifa, hands entwined. Her fingers are warm, and her smile is soft; Marlene and Denzel play together on the grass, among scattered pale daisies.

It's been a year, but of course the memories still remain: they always will. Mixed up and chaotic - he cannot think of the early times without some of the anger, bitter hatred and betrayal seeping through; that smile and those secret thoughts are always marred. And, he cannot think of the later battles without flinching at what he's done to the one who gave him hope so long ago.

Tifa wants him to forget all about it; has told him time and time again, but... he doesn't think that's possible.

He's mostly at peace with himself, but some memories can't be kept down, and, perhaps, shouldn't be forgotten. Those flashes of elation and hope, mingled with despair, blood and violence...

They're --(_he's_)-- a part of him now, and always will be.


End file.
